


Call Your Alien Boyfriend

by twofoldAxiom



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, I Had Such A Hard Time Writing This, It Got A Little Pale There I'm Sorry, M/M, Matespritship, Red Romance, This Song Choice Is So Difficult To Write Red Feelings For
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 06:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4127940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofoldAxiom/pseuds/twofoldAxiom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He makes another face, one you can’t identify, but goes on, rambles on really, not looking at you. “This is going to be the stupidest thing you’ve heard in a long time, probably. Like, really stupid. This may be the stupidest damn thing you hear for the next few years to be honest, but I’m going to say it. I’m going to say it and maybe die a little on the inside when I do, so, prepare your auriculars or whatever fancy way-too-scientific term you have for ears, because ho boy is this-”</p><p>“Out with it, Strider.” You growl.</p><p>“I think I have a crush on you.”</p><p>You throw the spoon at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Your Alien Boyfriend

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the anon that sent Davesprite<3Karkat to [Robyn's "Call Your Girlfriend"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pLgAkPK54IA), I'm sorry that this took so long, it was a really difficult song to write to without making it cliche or painful for me for personal reasons. :'3 I hope you still like it!
> 
> The playlist I wrote the fic to is [here.](http://8tracks.com/chess-and-snickers/call-your-alien-boyfriend/)

_Don't you even try and explain how it's so different when we kiss_

_~!~_

It’s not rocket science that the two of you weren’t working anymore, you just wish you weren’t such a hopeless romantic hanging onto the idea of serendipity, because when the night came that he called you to talk, you told yourself it wasn’t going to be what it had to be.

So, Dave broke up with you, but at least he had the decency to do it face-to-face, unlike certain other heartbreakers you’ve had throughout your stay on this awful planet. The “at least” in that sentence is bitterly given, and does little to ease the sting that even your favorite combination of romcoms and icecream have thus far failed to ease.

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you are definitely not crying. You’re too wrung out to cry.

You are, however, in one of the worst moods you’ve ever been in since sBURB and sGRUB happened. That’s saying something, considering how little bloodshed has been involved in your life ever since, but the sense of betrayal is still there. The sense of “should have known better” is still there, the sense of “if _you_ had been better”is still there. Rationally, you know that’s complete bullshit, because it was a sinking ship like your moirallegiance with Gamzee had been, and no one is really to blame for the chemistry just not being there after the initial spark.

That doesn’t mean you can’t be upset about it, and to be honest, watching these people who hate each other at first and then vacillate into something redder just hurts. You wonder why you chose to watch a vacillation movie. Maybe you just hate yourself that much.

You ponder this just a little longer before someone knocks on the door and pulls you out of your miserable reverie. You look down at yourself and think, gross, icecream stains on your shirt and a pair of boxers that barely cover your spotty thighs. But then you also think, whatever; you pull on a bathrobe and wrap it around yourself to keep some semblance of decency before dragging your feet towards the door, calling out, “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming already, stop knocking like a panleaking wriggler!”

When you undo the locks and pull it open, you don’t quite register who it is at first; you take in and pieces, and something seems missing until you realize he’s not wearing his shades.

You shut the door in his face.

Or try to. He wedges a shoe in the doorway.

“Hey, come on, let me in.” He says.

“You don’t have any business being here tonight, asshole.” You growl, and try to crush his foot in the door by leaning all your weight on it, and he swears.

“Okay, Jesus, fuck, I get it; get off my foot, I just want to talk.” He pleads, and you snort.

“Can it wait until I’m not in a shitty mood after _you fucking broke up with me?_ ” You’re a little surprised to hear a soft, flat “what” from behind the doorway, but you’re too incensed not to continue. “Yeah, that’s a thing that happened, unless you already forgot, you moron. Don’t make it any harder on me by visiting literal hours after the fact.”

There’s silence, and you hear a sigh. “You got the wrong guy, Karkat.” He says, and you almost snort again, before you remember, you don’t know only one Dave. You feel like an asshole when he says, “Come on, open the door and take a closer look.”

You’re doubting him, just a little, but the differences are a little clearer when you flip on the light and open the door properly. He’s almost a redhead for one, and his eyes are light brown instead of red. His lips are tight-pressed and quirked down slightly on one side, and he leans against the doorframe.

You rub your arm and sigh. “Sorry. You still look like him.”

“I know. It’s okay.” He says. “I’ve been thinking of getting a haircut to help with that. Shave my head or some shit, at least when it’s not so cold out.” He’s wearing a jacket tonight, and gloves, though you know it can’t really be that cold because he wears gloves to hide the weird spots on his hands where bird scales once were. He shrugs with one shoulder and looks back to you. “Can I come in or what?”

“Yeah. Sure.” You mutter. You step aside from the door and he slips right in, padding across the wooden floor to the shoe rack before toeing off his converse. He turns to face you and you see his eyes glance up and down, and you reflexively tighten your robe a little and scowl. “What did you come here for?”

“Same reason you nearly ripped my toes off.” He does a little shake that brings to mind a bird fluffing up its feathers. “I heard Other Me dumped you.”

You furrow your brows and lean against the door. “And?”

His lips go tight again, the same way all the Striders and Lalondes do when they’re not sure if they should say what they will. “I wanted to check up on you.”

All you can think is how tired you are, how much icecream and booze you’ve had, how you’re going to have a killer hangover tomorrow, but what you say is, “I’m fine. Are you done checking?”

He laughs, joyless, soft. You quirk an eyebrow and then scrunch both of them up again, eyes narrowed. He quickly stops laughing, eyes twitching away from you for a moment like he wishes they were covered up with those stupid shades he used to wear.

“Didn’t mean to laugh, man.” He licks his cracked lips. “I just, I’ve been through all that shit dodging people’s questions about Bro. I know when someone’s bullshitting about being okay.”

There’s silence between you, and your shoulders raise just a little before dropping again. You rub your arms, trying to get some warmth into them. “I’m fine.” You say.

“You’re not.” He answers, then mirrors you with a little shrug, glancing away again for a moment. “I mean shit, even if I hadn’t spent most of my life with a mind-game loving sociopath, I can smell the booze and misery right off you from over here. And you’re sticky and covered in icecream.”

You actually sniff and glare at him. “So?” Your voice cracks ever so slightly and you sway on your feet. “Don’t make fun of me, asshat.”

“So.” He says, and hesitates, tight lips all over again before he forces himself to continue. He shrugs, tries to play it cool. “Shit, man, I don’t know. This was probably a shitty idea, everything considered. I’m sorry.”

You blink. “Say that again.” You hesitate, just a moment. “That last thing.”

“I’m sorry.” More silence and a meter of space filled with a lot that you don’t understand- why he would bother coming here in the first place for one, why you can’t let yourself let go of Dave, why hearing those words from him felt like a breath of cool air even though rationally you know he has nothing to apologize for.

“Okay.” You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding and turn back to the couch. “Okay. That’s enough for now.” You walk over and sit down, and he follows behind you. You don’t bother reaching for the slowly-melting pint of icecream anymore, you’re full of the stuff and now you’re just tired and kind of cold. Davesprite-Dave sits down on the opposite end, his elbows on his knees. This time, you break the silence, coughing into your fist.

“Thanks.” You say, stilted and awkward, but sincere. You feel pressed flat, too pressed flat to put up any semblance of your usual enraged front.

He doesn’t bother saying it’s okay back. Both of you probably know that it isn’t really, and even if it isn’t his fault, you can’t help but feel the tiniest bit pissy at him for being a sort of Dave. You’re probably pissy at every iteration of Dave Strider paradox space has to offer right now, which is pathetic in your own opinion.

You wrap your robe tighter around your shoulders and feel incredibly small and sorry for yourself, because here someone is trying to make you feel better and you have no idea what to do about it. You should stop trying to figure out why he wants you to feel better, but the thought won’t leave you alone. You turn to face him. “Why?”

“Why what?” He asks, and you growl. He holds his hands up in front of him. “I’m serious here.”

“Why did you come here? You said it was because Dave broke up with me, but we barely know each other, you don’t have any reason to feel sorry for me.”

He sighs, and lowers his hands, rubbing the back of his neck with the left one and pressing his lips tight. “I dunno, I guess I feel responsible for it? Like, yeah, we don’t really know each other, but it feels like I’m the one who made you feel like shit.”

“So you’re just guilty.” You say, bitter in the back of your throat.

“Well, not just that.” He says. He coughs into his hand and you raise your eyebrow. “How do I put this… we’re a lot alike, me and Other Me, yeah?”

“No shit.” You huff.

He makes another face, one you can’t identify, but goes on, rambles on really, not looking at you. “This is going to be the stupidest thing you’ve heard in a long time, probably. Like, really stupid. This may be the stupidest damn thing you hear for the next few years to be honest, but I’m going to say it. I’m going to say it and maybe die a little on the inside when I do, so, prepare your auriculars or whatever fancy way-too-scientific term you have for ears, because ho boy is this-”

“Out with it, Strider.” You growl.

“I think I have a crush on you.”

You throw the spoon at him.

“Okay, I probably deserved that.” He says when he recovers, and you resist the urge to throw the pint of icecream at him too. “I probably deserve a lot worse than that, on count of both my shitty alternate self and my even shittier my-own-damn-self’s timing. This was probably not the best time to unveil some straight up romantic-not-bromantic feelings towards you-”

“ _Shut up._ ” You hit him with the couch cushions, put all your impotent rage into hitting him with the lumpy old thing until he actually does stop. You’re breathing hard and your arms are tired and your eyes are stinging when finally, you stop. “Just shut up, okay? This isn’t the time for you to be confessing undying love at my feet-”

“Woah, now, I didn’t say anything about undying love-”

“ _Listen, you phenomenal trash prince!_ ” Yelling only makes you feel worse when you catch the startled look on his face. It’s a familiar blend of anger and shame, but you push through it with a deep breath and try to stop your shoulders from shaking. “I’m just trying to tell you that _right now_ is about as far from an ideal time to tell me you have any sort of red feelings for me at all as can possibly be comprehended. Okay?”

“Okay.” He says so flatly, pokerfaced, but his eyes won’t meet yours. You feel like the biggest asshole. He holds up his hands with a breath. “Okay. I get that. I’m sorry.”

“Okay.” You say back, and you find yourself hugging your arms. You want to shrivel up and wallow in your misery, but you notice he’s shifted closer, a hand or so apart from you now. He’s hesitant about it, but you let him when he reaches over your shoulder and gives you a pat on the back, and you can feel the warmth of his palms even through the cloth of his gloves. It’s just a little comforting, and you shift an inch closer and while you still don’t look at him, you nudge just that much closer and he doesn’t protest when you take his hand, wrap it around your shoulders and settle your head under his chin, your arms tucked against his chest.

His breath tickles your hair a little, and it’s a while like that before he speaks up. “You send a lot of mixed signals, you know?”

“I know.” You grumble back. “Mixed Signals Vantas right here. I said it was a bad time to say you have a crush on me.”

“So what is this?” He asks.

“... This is this.” You say, so softly it sounds weird to you; you’re used to being loud. “This is something I’m okay with. Doesn’t have to be red, I just need to be held.”

His other hand reaches up and plays with your hair. “Can it be red?”

You’re silent for a time before answering, and you hear yourself as if underwater, as if from a distance. “I don’t know. Fuck, I don’t want to string you along like a complete asshole, but I don’t know what I want right now. I just, give me some breathing room and don’t get your hopes up, I’m terrible anyway.”

“Come on, don’t shortchange yourself.” You knock his jaw with one of your horns a little and he grunts, rubbing the point of contact before continuing. “I’m serious, Karkat. You’re not terrible. You’re just… abrasive I guess.” He shrugs, and you butt him again, a little harder. “Hey, cut that out.”

“Abrasive, huh?” You frown at him. “That sounds way too light for me. You know it. I know it. Don’t lie, asshole.”

“Okay, fine, what do you want me to say?” He bunches his shoulders up a little before sliding lower on the couch, and you think, this is almost piling isn’t it? Except you know he’s not pale for you, and he’s not good enough at pulling you out of your funk for this to ever work out pale. You doubt you could be properly pale for him either, considering your biases. He coughs over your head. “Hey, I asked you a question.”

“I don’t know.” You answer, and he huffs another mirthless little laugh.

“Okay, that makes two of us.” He holds you a little tighter, and you let him as the credits on the screen roll.

Somehow you end up relaxing a little as he strokes your hair, and you find your eyes drooping a little more. You close them and feel yourself losing minutes at a time, until the first dream hits and you bolt off of him in cold sweat

He wakes up too, eyes bleary, going “What? what happened?”

“I fell asleep.” You answer, shaking. You don’t remember the dream but there are bits of nightmare in the corners of the room yet, and you shiver. He rubs your back and gathers you against him again, and you push him away gently, looking seriously between you two. “What the fuck is happening here, Strider?”

“You’re warm.” He mumbles, half-asleep still. You lightly slap your fingers against his cheek to wake him, frowning, and he scrunches up his face and tries to wave your hand off. “What? I answered, didn’t I?”

You don’t want to say that the answer wasn’t good enough, but that’s how you feel. Instead you dig around under the couch for your sopor patches and slap one on your neck. You feel your muscles go loose almost instantly, leaning against him, listening to him breathe. You don’t know if you can be red for him, but maybe you can be friends instead, in a way. At least for now, while you heal.

You turn off the tv and settle in for a dreamless night, the clock ticking away on the wall and your eyes drooping all over again. This time, when you open them next, you feel the sting of dawn-light through the thick blinds and you’re alone. Squinting, you wrap yourself in a snuggleplane and pillow your head on one of the couch cushions, and you wonder if you should have kissed him instead of throwing the spoon at him, something crazy like that, but you know that it would have been an awful idea; not while you were still hung up on Dave.

You brood like that for a while longer until you hear the door open, and you look to see Davesprite-Dave coming back with a plastic bag from the downstairs 7-11. You look owlishly up at him as he raises the bag.

“It’s breakfast burritos.” He says, then lowers it, chews his lip. “Don’t know if you even like those. I kind of planned to eat them myself until you woke up, didn’t want to leave while you were asleep, but I guess that’s a non-point if you woke up while I was downstairs.”

You blink slowly and yawn. He scuffs his toe on the floor. “You can have some if you want.”

Well, you’re not one to turn down free food, and all you had last night was icecream, so you may as well. “Thanks.” You say, and he does his one-shouldered shrug again, striding towards your combination nutrition-and-preparations block and putting the burritos on a plate before popping them in the cookerifier. You drag yourself off the couch as the smell of cheap meat starts wafting through the block.

The two of you eat in silence, but it’s more companionable now than last night, and when you’re done you put the plate in the sink and the cartons in the trash, and sit back down on the couch. He’s still there and you don’t think much about leaning on his shoulder then, still half-asleep.

“I’m sorry.” You mutter.

“For what?” He asks.

“For treating you like shit last night.” You glance down at your hands on your bare thighs, charcoal-on-concrete grey. You feel a slight pressure on one of your horns before it leaves and realize he’s just kissed it. Your bloodpusher wrenches in your chest, honestly, you’re such a loser.

“It’s fine.” He says, and you wish you could let yourself believe it.

 


End file.
